I must remove your wings, and you must try to fly
by lurknomoar
Summary: Erik felt the man approach before seeing him – even with the suppression collar on, through the suffocating fog of anti-mutant engineering, he could feel three points of metal calling out to him: two masterfully wrought, age-smoothened silver cufflinks each forming the letter X, and a cheap aluminium pen. He felt them, and he could not touch them like he could, a long time ago.


Author's Note: This story contains dubiously consensual sex, as well as master/slave power dynamics. Proceed with caution.

Erik felt the man approach before seeing him – even with the suppression collar on, through the suffocating fog of anti-mutant engineering, he could feel three points of metal calling out to him: two masterfully wrought, age-smoothened silver cufflinks each forming the letter X, and a cheap aluminium pen. He felt them, and he knew he could not touch them like he could, a long time ago. But experiencing frustration was in itself insubordination, because he had been taught that a good slave rejoices in all his master's commands, so he did his best to suppress the surge of wistful longing. He did not turn around – Master Shaw had ordered him to stand at the foot of the stairs, motionless like the faux-Greek marble statues that decorated the ballroom, and just as naked. His purpose, for the time being, was the same as theirs – to look decorative. Master Shaw wanted to impress, and Erik knew that a well-groomed, well-trained slave like him was nothing if not impressive. Master Shaw often wanted to impress his guests with Erik's strength or his obedience, and if sometimes that meant he ordered Erik to lick all the guests' shoes clean, or grasp the poker from the fireplace by its red-hot end, Erik accepted it without hesitation. So he did not turn his head, even as he became certain that the man was walking directly towards him.

The man that entered his field of vision was far younger than he expected, and also a great deal more beautiful. He seemed hardly more than a tousled-haired boy, especially as under-dressed as he was – he put on a tie, but instead of the well-tailored three-piece suits of all the other masters, he was wearing a worn-out blue cardigan over his shirt. Slaves were not supposed to envy the possessions of masters, and Erik rarely coveted anything of theirs, especially their fancy clothes, but looking at the young man, he suddenly thought that the cardigan must be very soft to the touch, and he was, for the first time in years, resentful of his nakedness. Then the man smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and Erik forgot about the cardigan, because that smile was unsettlingly unlike the way masters usually looked at him. At least fifty people have walked by him that evening, at least twenty stopped to admire his stature, his lean muscles, his unflinching stance. Some even smiled at the remark another master made about him, but not one of them had smiled directly at _him_.

'Hello.' said the stranger, tentatively shuffling a step closer.

Erik debated the possible answers for a second, knowing that Master Shaw told him to stay stock-still. However, he also remembered that Mater Shaw told all the slaves to entertain guests in every way they required.

'What do you require, sir?' asked Erik formally, dropping his shoulders and taking up a less decorative but more submissive position. This brought him roughly on eye level with the young man.

'Nothing, nothing really.' He stretched languid and cat-like, suppressing a yawn. 'It's just… this ball is terribly boring. Even more boring than balls usually are, I mean.'

'Yes, sir.' answered Erik, although he never noticed any particular difference between the hundreds of formal gatherings Master Shaw arranged or attended.

'I mean I had to come here, it's expected of me as the heir of the Xavier fortune, it's no use to have the big name if you are unknown in all the relevant circles, or at least that's what Raven keeps telling me.' Continued the stranger, animatedly underlining each point with his hands. 'But I have gotten spoiled in Oxford, where I could just go down to the first pub, and find an astrophysicist and a post-colonial anthropologist having a passionate, drunk disagreement about Oscar Wilde. Here, it's just tedious talk of internal politics, glorified gossip and discussions of slave grooming. What do people even do here?'

'Some of them dance, sir. It is also possible to eat, drink, admire Master Shaw's collection of art and slaves, to engage in conversation. Or in the carnal pleasures.' Erik nodded towards the alcoves where some masters were already bedding the slaves they have brought along. It was bad etiquette, in his view, to remove one's self form the company so early in the evening, but he knew he did not have the permission to comment on it.

The stranger looked around the room, and seemed to make a decision.

'What's your name?'

'Erik, sir.'

'Brilliant, Erik. Tell me, do you play chess?'

Erik did. In fact, it was one of the few things he did to occupy his empty hours when Shaw had no need of him. (These were rare, as Shaw often needed him to kneel immobile in the corner of the room while he entertained guests, or while he was working, or for no discernible reason.) But when he could get his hands on a chess set, he played – he played with fellow slaves, beating them almost every time, and he played long, intricate games in his head, against an imaginary opponent. He supposed, if he was a freeman, he could say he _liked _the game – but slaves did not have such preferences.

'Yessir.' Answered Erik.

'Groovy.' Said the stranger with a grin. A few steps away from them, on a little round table there was a decorative chess set, a marble replica of the Lewis chessmen. The stranger threw himself into one of the plush leather armchairs near the table, bouncing a little, and gestured for Erik to do the same. Erik sat, gingerly, and waited for further instructions.

'Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Charles, Charles Francis Xavier.' Said the stranger, and to Erik's utter shock, he reached out a hand to grasp Erik's. His hand was soft, indicating a life of easy indoor work, but it was also surprisingly warm, and altogether quite pleasant to the touch. 'I used to study genetics, now I suddenly have money, which seems to mean I'm not allowed to study anymore, or at least not for a while. You'll play white.'

Erik obediently nudged the left bishop's pawn forward. Charles responded almost immediately with the king's pawn. They started playing, and Erik took great care not to play to his full capacity – he knew from personal experience that masters didn't take kindly to being defeated, even if it was in a game. Every turn, he swiftly evaluated his options, and chose one that didn't appear outright idiotic, but still tilted the game's balance in Charles' favour. This is how Charles took his Queen in half a dozen moves.

'Oh, I forgot how I used to love this game.' Sighed Charles, rolling the little white chess piece between his fingers.

'Indeed, sir.' Added Erik, as it was required of him. 'Extremely well-played.'

'Wait a minute.' Said Charles, slamming the queen back down on the table. 'You are playing to lose, aren't you?'

Erik was at a loss for words. If he admitted that he was letting Charles win, that was almost as rude as calling him stupid to his face, and thinking you are better than a master makes you a bad slave, everybody knows that. But if he said he wasn't, he was lying to a master, which was just as bad.

'Never mind.' Said Charles, apparently taking pity on him. 'If you are, stop it. I want to see if I can actually beat you.'

Erik felt dubious about the entire idea, but nevertheless started making the moves he would have ruled out before for being too effective. In a dozen rounds, he had taken one of Charles' knights, but the man didn't seem angry. Instead, Charles was smiling broader and broader with every move.

'You really are very good at this.' He said, scratching the back of his head as he contemplated the next move. 'I have half a mind to take you with me, to be my personal chess-slave.'

'I am wholly content with my current master, and do not wish for another placement.' Erik recited, the protocol response to anyone who tries to buy, bribe or seduce an already owned slave – he has said this phrase a few hundred times already to dozens of different masters, so it never occurred to him to think about what it actually meant. It never occurred to him to disagree.

'Content, hmm.' Murmured Charles, moving his bishop to avoid Erik's rook. 'So what do you do all day?'

'I do whatever Master Shaw tells me to do.' Answered Erik, suddenly unwilling to reveal the particular services he performed for Shaw. It wasn't a lie, merely a gentle rephrasing of truth. 'I wait on him, and serve him in every way he requires.'

'If you were my slave,' countered Charles, with a playful glint in his entirely too blue eyes. 'I'd give you your letter of freedom the very same day, put you into a brand new car with a suitcase full of money and then let you go wherever you will.'

'You wouldn't be a very good owner then.' Answered Erik, and put down the pawn he was holding with a loud click.

Charles was, somehow, still not angry. He seemed to have a limitless capacity to tolerate slaves' pathetic mistakes. Mater Shaw would have already backhanded him a few times by now.

'Well then, what do you think makes a good owner?' asked Charles.

'A good master uses his slaves to their utmost capacity.' Answered Erik. He didn't have to think about the answer, this was something every slave knew, be they man, woman or child.

'I see.' Said Charles, in a low, thoughtful voice. 'I think I could do that. You were just standing there, doing nothing, so I don't think you were fulfilling your capacity very well. I'd take you home with me to the manor, and give you free range to roam the rooms and the grounds. After all, you have impressive musculature, and it's a pity to waste it on statue-work. You would also be encouraged to visit the library, as a slave of quick intellect is always of great value, especially if he speaks multiple languages, like you do.'

Erik started, hoping that he didn't betray the jolt of fear that ran through him at the thought that this strange master could know about his past.

'It is just a guess based on that slight hint of German accent.' Said Charles peaceably.

Erik ever so slightly relaxed. He was aware of his accent, especially as most slaves were trained to lose all linguistic tics and individualising speech patterns. Shaw liked it though, so he was allowed to retain the subtle difference in the way he rolled his Rs or sharpened his Vs.

'Also, I would get you some more clothes.' Continued Charles, as if there had been no interruption. 'Not that you are not an enjoyable sight stark naked, but sometimes the rights clothes can be an improvement even on nudity. Turtlenecks, possibly. And of course, I'd remove that idiotic suppression collar too, and see what you can do with that magnificent mutation of yours.'

This time, Erik had trouble biting back the questions clamouring in his throat. The suppression collar may have betrayed his mutant status, but how did this blue-eyed boy know what his mutation was? How could he possibly find it magnificent? And how come a master wasn't afraid to take the collar off his slave?

He never got to ask any of these questions, because from behind his back, he heard a familiar exclamation.

'Dammit, Erik, I should have seen it coming!' Master Shaw boomed. 'You found some young, naïve master, and you are trying to sell your old routine again.'

'What routine?' asked Charles, sounding, for some reason, very indignant.

'The one where he pretends that he is a person.' Master Shaw turned his eyes back on Erik, and barked a single word. 'Down.'

Erik was lying prone on the floor before he consciously realised what was said – these lighting-sharp reflexes were the result of years and years under the whip and the cattle prod and what's even worse, Master Shaw's own powers. Master Shaw nudged one of his leather boots forward, and Erik knew what he had to do. He raised his head, and licked the dirt and the mud from it as well as he could. Normally he felt no shame during this act, after all, it was an utterly natural and common way for a slave to greet his master and show his obedience. But the thought of Charles seeing him do this gave him a strange, queasy feeling, his face felt hot, and he childishly hoped that Charles wasn't watching. Of course, Master Shaw was right. He _was _pretending to be a person, pretending to be a freeman, even if it was only Charles who goaded him into it by treating him like one. He should have had more restraint, he should have remembered not to get carried away. He couldn't afford to forget what his place was, not even for a single second, and what he was feeling, the shameful sick feeling, was proof enough.

'I rather like this one.' said Charles, his voice cutting through Erik's thoughts. 'How much do you ask for him?'

'This is Erik Lensherr, and he's not for sale.' Answered Master Shaw decisively, and pulled back his boot from Erik's lips. Erik obediently stopped licking, and sat back on his knees.

'Even if I were to offer 3000 H-units for him, immediately transferrable?' asked Charles, to Erik's astonishment. The offered sum was more than three times his market price.

'I can see that you haven't been very long in the slave business, Mr Xavier.' Said Master Shaw, sitting down in the armchair Erik vacated. 'Otherwise you would know that it's not just about the money. Erik here, for example, was trained by me personally. You couldn't teach him to obey anyone else, even if you trained him to death.'

'I have no intention of doing so.' Said Charles, leaning forward in his armchair. 'And you failed to mention that he hasn't been trained from infancy, as all slaves of decent quality should be. He was at least ten when you started working on him.'

'It is truly a pity that Erik didn't come to me sooner.' Answered Master Shaw, shaking his head in a facsimile of genuine sorrow. 'As things were, I had to use rather innovative ways of training to make sure Erik belonged to me as certainly as if he had been mine since his first breath. I think the end result is actually an improvement. Maybe I could start a school.'

'So what kind of slave did you innovatively train him to be?' Charles inquired.

'A pleasure slave, of course.' Answered Master Shaw. 'Don't you think that body speaks for itself?'

Erik was used to being talked about like he wasn't there, and he did not particularly mind, but the contrast between this, and Charles gently teasing him over chess, was almost intolerable. And of course, Master Shaw told Charles the most common, lowly form of service he provided– sharing his master's bed on demand, opening his mouth, his hand, his legs, whatever was required of him either for Master Shaw himself, or for his allies when Master Shaw decided to reward them by giving them Erik to use. Erik couldn't help feeling a slight glimmer of resentment, knowing that Master Shaw chose to omit that Erik has served him in far more dangerous and exciting ways. Erik remembered using his metal-seeking abilities to find hidden men, and then kill some of them, either with guns or with his own mutation. He was not entirely sure about all of it, because every time Master Shaw took him out to work without his suppression collar on, Mistress Frost was there, and trying to remember details like exact dates, places and names felt like forcing his naked brain through razor-sharp ice. Erik had a vague impression that if Charles knew about his strength and skill in his work hunting down his master's enemies, he would think more of him than if he just knew him as a pleasure slave. But in the end, it didn't matter – no matter what Charles did, Master Shaw would never, ever sell Erik.

'So you say he's a personally trained pleasure slave, and a good one at that.' Mused Charles. 'That may be true, but I'm sure I could tame him to obey me.'

Master Shaw just scoffed, shaking his head, and Erik knew why. Charles was foolish to think he could make him disobey Master Shaw. Erik racked his brain, and he could come up with nothing, absolutely nothing that could make him not obey Master Shaw. Not obeying your master was the very worst thing a slave could do, everybody knew that, and the very thought of it made Erik feel sick and lost and utterly terrified.

Confirming his worst nightmare, Charles continued speaking.

'I could, I swear it wouldn't even be that difficult.' He insisted.

Master Shaw smiled a slow, thin-lipped smile, and Erik knew that very bad things were about to happen. The worst kinds of things.

'How about a wager?' asked Master Shaw jovially. 'You make my slave disobey me, right here, right now, and I'll give him to you for free, and good riddance. But if you fail, I'll be expecting fair and equal recompense. Money is not enough at this level of trade, so I expect you to allow me to have my choice of your slaves.'

'I own none.' Said Charles to Erik's great surprise. How could a man claim to know anything about training and discipline if he never practised them in person?

'Well, well. How embarrassing.' Continued Master Shaw with a smirk. 'In that case I'm going to have to revoke our little bet. Unless…'

'I bet myself.' Said Charles resolutely. 'Should I fail to make Erik disobey you, I will become your slave in law and in body.'

Master Shaw nodded his acceptance, and the two men shook hands with barely concealed disdain.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' Roared Master Shaw, silencing the entire ballroom. 'We have found new entertainment for the evening! Come closer, ladies and gentlemen!'

The crowd stopped their aimless milling around, and many of them, probably as many as fifty, crowded around their little group.

'As some of you know, this is my own personal slave, Erik Lensherr!' announced Master Shaw. 'And this is a newcomer in high society by the illustrious name of Xavier, Charles Xavier. He proposed to me the following bet: if he can make my most trusted slave disobey me, he can take him home, but if he should fail, his own freedom is forfeit, and my collection will gain a lovely new member. And of course, he will not be using his telepathy, because Emma dear can always pick up psychic signatures, and if we find any in Erik's mind or in this location, the bet is as good as lost on your part. '

The crowd made sounds of polite interest and agreement, and Erik was torn between feeling sorry for Charles, and annoyed at him. On one hand he was doomed to fail, despite his attitude, and live the rest of his life in a slavery he was unaccustomed to. Erik could disobey Master Shaw as little as he could grow wings. On the other hand, Charles was a telepath. That must have been how he knew all about Erik's accent and his mutant abilities, and everything else. He was starting to feel genuine anger towards Charles, or at least the ghost of the emotion – real anger was beaten out of him years ago. But all his resentment faded away when Charles started smiling again.

'So what's the order?' asked Charles cockily.

Master Shaw turned to Erik, and hard eyes bore into Erik's skull as he gave the orders.

'Don't come.' He commanded. 'Do everything he tells you to do, but don't come.'

Charles looked a little taken aback, but that was nothing compared to how Erik felt. The indignation was mostly on Charles' behalf, as Erik had had extended sessions of orgasm denial before, and while he had found it extremely unpleasant, it was just another part of being a slave. Charles, one the other hand would turn back immediately if he had a sane thought in his tousled head. The only way to make Erik come, especially without telepathic abilities, would be to have sex with him. Masters often had sex in front of others, and if some masters sometimes felt like giving their slaves an orgasm, it was seen as nothing worse than eccentric. But to be in the middle of a crowded room with more and more spectators gathering around, some of them craning over others' head to see, and attempt to bring a frigid, recalcitrant slave to the edge, would be seen as pathetic. Not pathetic, it would be mortifying, it would be so ridiculous that it could finish Charles's social career even if he somehow managed to win. Which, of course, was impossible, and the foolish, beautiful young man just managed to sign himself away to a lifetime of slavery.

'All right' murmured Charles. 'Would it be too much to ask for a little privacy?'

'And deprive us of the spectacle?' laughed Master Shaw. 'I don't think so.'

'Well then' sighed Charles. 'Come here.'

Erik obediently walked over to Charles, who put a hand on his shoulder, and looked at him with deep, inexplicable regret in his morning-sky eyes.

'I wish I didn't have to do this.' He murmured, soft enough that only Erik heard it, and then kissed him on the mouth. Erik opened his lips and returned the kiss, but it was so unlike the times he had been kissed before, he could make no sense of it at all. There was no urgency, and hardly any desire in the slow, soft pressure of lips against his, or in the careful hands caressing his shoulders and back to settle on his waist. Erik found it surprisingly nice, it reminded him less of the screaming pleasure wrenched from him by a master's hand, and more of the rare times he had some calm comfort to himself, like the softness of freshly washed linen, or the smell of hot sweet tea. He knew slaves were not allowed to want, but he did catch himself vaguely wishing that he could have kisses like that again sometime in the future. But outside the circle of Charles' arms, he could hear the crowd getting restless, hooting and jeering and shouting encouragement: they were impatient, and like Erik, they couldn't understand why the boy wasn't getting on with it.

'We don't have time for this! Position!'

Master Shaw's voice cut through the din, and Erik obeyed instantly: he broke the kiss to fall on the carpet, his head resting on his crossed arms and his ass in the air. He couldn't see Charles, only heard his startled chuckle.

'Of course, we should be getting on with it.' He murmured, and Erik could hear the rustle of his trousers as he knelt down.

Erik didn't flinch at the warm hand, appreciatively caressing his backside. He was used to getting fucked, so he braced himself – most masters didn't bother much with lubrication or foreplay, and anyway, he had been taught to bear pain silently. But he did flinch at the touch of Charles's tongue on him. At first, he thought it was something Charles did to put him off his guard before pushing into him, but then the second hot, wet lick came, and the third, and Erik had to realise that this young man had some very unusual ideas about preparation. But it wasn't so terrible, merely strange, and Erik could tolerate it well enough.

Or he thought so, until he felt that tongue slowly circling against him, and the beginnings of pleasure sparked up his spine. He tried to pay no attention to it, but he couldn't deny that the feeling of anticipation that overcame him was frighteningly, exhilaratingly good. And then that teasing tongue actually entered him, and it took all his willpower to keep his hips still, although he couldn't for the life of him tell if he wanted to escape the strange sensation or frantically push into it. Charles patiently continued, even though Erik was sure he was already loose enough for the master's pleasure, and slick with saliva, so there was absolutely no reason to go on. He kept lapping at the sensitised skin, and Erik had to bury his nails in the soft skin of his own wrists to keep his control, after all he wasn't told to move, or allowed to make any noise. He could swallow the pitiful whining moans that tried to escape him, and he could fight the urge to squirm into the absolutely delicious tickling, teasing sensation, but there was no way he could avoid getting hard. He cursed his disobedient body, as he knew he wouldn't be allowed to come, and he suspected he would be ordered to stand statue-still until the already almost-painful hardness ceased.

Charles pulled back, and Erik had to bite his lip to stop himself from uttering a moan as the slick tongue was replaced by cold air.

'Be a dear and turn around' ordered Charles in a soft, slightly breathless voice. Erik knew that this meant that it would soon be over, so he scrambled to lie on his back as gracefully as possible. He could hear the crowd gasp at his visible arousal. If he heard it right, some people in the front rows started making bets. Charles leaning over him was still completely dressed, and apart from a slight dilation of the pupils, remarkably composed. Erik spread his legs, closed his eyes, and braced himself for finally being entered. But all that breached him was a single finger, at the same time as Charles swallowed him down. He couldn't help but break protocol and gasp aloud at the utterly overwhelming onslaught of sensation. He forced his eyes open, he had to see what Charles was doing, but the sight of Charles bent over him sparked a sudden, terrifying jolt of pleasure, and he quickly shut his eyes in fear of being undone.

This entire thing made no sense. Masters fucked slaves. Slaves pleasured masters. The very idea of a master humiliating himself to pleasure a slave, a master putting his mouth on a slave, was wrong, was sick, was so unbearably good that despite his nails biting into his hands and his teeth bloodying his lips, he couldn't keep silent.

'Master Xavier, this must be some sort of mistake, _oh_, you shouldn't – _ahh_ – shouldn't be doing this, masters are not supposed to, that's not right, this is wrong, this is _so so wrong_' he was cut off by Charles's hand, reaching up to pat his side, to run over his ribcage – the gesture seemed to be meant for comfort, but it wasn't comforting at all. How was Erik supposed to keep still, when his treacherous body was clamouring for more of that mind-numbing pleasure, wanting in turn to push up into Charles' mouth or down on his finger? How was he supposed to keep silent when he saw stars behind his closed eyelids, and the entire thing felt so good, too good, too much? And every time he thought he had calmed down enough to regain control of himself, Charles did something else, something even more unbearable, something with his tongue or his lips or his fingers that made Erik arch off the floor. He couldn't stop his desperate gasps and moans from escaping him anymore, and he couldn't stop his hips hitching shamefully with every wave of pleasure, and he was almost too far-gone to care. It felt as if the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins had been replaced with liquid pleasure, and he couldn't resist, couldn't act, couldn't think, couldn't care that the rising wave of white-hot pleasure was robbing him of the last vestiges of control, and bringing him to the very edge, he couldn't care that it would only take one more touch to –

His orders. He almost broke his orders. The thought felt like being doused with ice-cold water. He wrenched his eyes open, roughly pushed Charles away, and scrambled back a few paces. Looking up at the young man, now with even messier hair and reddened lips, he could feel nothing but hatred. That man almost made him break his orders. Did he want to hurt Erik that much, or was he just ignorant? Didn't he know what happened to slaves who broke orders? Didn't he know what that would _make_ Erik? The pain of the idea was so terrible, he fell back to the floor, curled up around himself.

He remembered all the times he saw a slave break an order. He remembered the beatings, the ice baths, the electric shocks, he remembered being ordered to carry out the punishments himself, and the sickening disgust he felt when hitting another slave that was still dwarfed by the unbearable thought of disobeying. He remembered those times, a very long time ago, when he was weak and foolish enough to intentionally misbehave, although he couldn't remember the punishments very well, only vague memories of being strapped down, and being afraid, so terribly afraid that he wet himself. And before that, he could remember his mother's death. His mother died because he didn't do as he was told, and if he had only been a good boy, his mother would not be dead. This is what happened to those who didn't follow orders. Not following orders was stupid, Erik knew that. Everything would work out fine if he did as he was told. How could he forget that?

'I think we can consider this little experiment a failure, can't we?' asked Shaw, and Erik was almost glad to hear his voice, the voice that gave the orders and banished the chaos from his mind and body, making everything orderly and controlled once again. Erik was still lying in fetal position, his arousal long gone. He could hear the crowd laughing.

'I did not say I was finished.' Charles's voice sounded different than it did before. It showed none of the fear Erik expected, but the former talkative joviality was gone as well. His voice was cold as ice, and utterly murderous.

'Continue, then, we're enjoying the show.' Drawled Master Shaw with a grimace of disdainful mirth.

Charles was immobile for a long moment. Then he laid a hand on Erik's shoulder, and asked an utterly baffling question.

'Do you remember our chess game?'

'Yes.' Nodded Erik.

'No, I mean do you remember where all the pieces were.' he added, in a much kinder voice. He almost sounded concerned.

'That too.' Answered Erik, unsure of what Charles was getting at.

'I want to finish the game. Here, now, without the board or the pieces, just talking.'

Erik had no idea what to think of this bizarre request from the man who almost made him come harder than he has in his life, and break an order for the first time in a decade, at the same moment. But he knew he couldn't ask, so he sat up, sitting on his heels the way Master Shaw had taught him, and visualised the chess board with all the remaining pieces. Strategically, Charles's position was more advantageous, especially considering Erik had no queen.

'Oh, and by the way, you have to play to win. That's an order, and I'll know if you try to throw the game again.'

He waited for Erik to nod his understanding, then sat down by his side, cross-legged on the carpet. The crowd around them was even larger now, everyone gathering close to see the newcomer humiliate himself.

'I believe it's my turn. Queen to D4.'

Erik didn't find it easy to think, with an enormous crowd staring at him and a persistent ache in his groin from being brought to the edge of orgasm and then denied, not to mention the distracting absurdity of the entire situation. But he had been ordered to play to win, and he was ordered to follow any order of Charles as long as he didn't come. He couldn't afford to come so close to failure again, so he followed the order and tried to focus on the game.

'King's Bishop to C3.' He answered after a few seconds.

Charles grinned, thought a little, and made an answering move. After he lost two Pawns and took one rook, he edged closer to Erik.

'I'm not ordering you to come.' He said, very emphatically, as he put a careful hand back on Erik. When Erik didn't react, he added, somewhat indignantly 'Your move.'

Erik continued playing, and he tried to bring his best game. Charles's hand started moving slowly and gently, a constant, persistent tease, but there was nothing that could distract him from the virtual chess board he visualised in front of him. Playing against Charles was different from playing against anyone else. Charles could always match him, move for move, play for play, never falling behind Erik, but not getting too far ahead of him either. Erik remembered playing matches against himself, pretending there was a bright, challenging opponent on the other side of the board, not just in his head. Playing against Charles was like finding that imaginary opponent actually existed.

'Am I making it harder - to concentrate?' purred Charles with a grin, wrapping his hand tighter around Erik.

'I am more than capable of beating you.' Answered Erik matter-of-factly, and he was surprised to realise that he actually meant it. Defeating Charles was a challenge, a fascinating, magnificent challenge, and a challenge he wanted to meet. He wanted, very badly, to win. He knew that slaves were not supposed to _want _at all, but since he had been ordered to try and win, there was nothing wrong with it, was there?

Charles seemed utterly focused on the game, looking up into Erik's eyes, and pondering every move at length. His face hardly betrayed what his right hand was doing to Erik. Erik did his best not to notice it either. He has been ordered to win, and that meant he had to focus, ignoring all distractions, ignoring that he was sitting on the floor in the middle of a crowded ballroom, ignoring the comments and laughter of onlookers, ignoring the icy glare Master Shaw was directing towards him, and ignoring that he was almost unbearably hard. After all, he already came close to losing control once, he almost disobeyed the order not to come. But now he was in control, he could feel his heart thudding and his blood rushing with adrenaline that for once wasn't pain or fear or bitter anger, but the wonderful, unbelievable possibility of victory. The entire world melted away, until there was nothing but he game, and Charles' blue, blue eyes.

He knew he has been ordered to win, and still he almost capitulated when he saw an opening to give Charles mate. Instead, he steeled himself and took the option. In a few moves, he had Charles cornered, and he saw Charles's brow knit in concentration as he tried to find a way out of his predicament, and saw his eyes open wide after a few seconds, when he found none.

'Checkmate, Master Xavier.' Erik said, and almost laughed aloud at the sudden realisation of victory sweeping over him. Charles played well and played cleverly, and Erik still defeated him. He couldn't remember ever winning anything or ever defeating anyone, and he felt strong, he felt glorious, he felt invincible in a way he had never felt before.

'You win, Mr Lensherr.' Answered Charles with a smile that was almost bashful, and tightened his fingers. Using all his faculties to concentrate on the game, Erik hadn't realised how close to the brink he was, and the surge of pleasure took him entirely by surprise. But he didn't have a full second to panic, because Charles's lovely, beautiful, obscene lips were just a few inches from his own, and Charles's lovely, clever hand felt so good, and he had won, he had won like he had never won before, he had won like slaves never do, and he deserved this, he could have this because he had _won, _and his mind was filled with nothing but _yes _as he lurched forward to claim Charles's lips in a wet, messy kiss as his hips stuttered up into Charles's hand.

There was a long moment of disjointed sensations, of the sweet pressure of Charles' mouth against his, of Charles's hand on him, of the softness of Charles' hair where Erik fisted a hand into it to pull him closer. All Erik knew was that he had won, that he had defeated Charles, he defeated Charles and he took this for himself, he took Charles's mouth and he took Charles' hand and he took Charles. A thought flashed through him, half-formed and incoherent, of pale skin and tousled hair and helpless, shameless moans, of Charles underneath him, defeated, conquered, _his _–

and he was coming with a quiet gasp, into Charles' hand and all over his lovely blue cardigan.

The force of his orgasm took him by surprise, and he would have collapsed if Charles hadn't caught him and held him close. He was gasping for air, there were tears running down his cheeks, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, Charles was pressing little kisses to his cheek, to his temple, whispering 'all right now' and 'you did so well', and Erik couldn't speak, he couldn't move, all he could do was shake and float on the waves of the afterglow, and even that felt way too good to be normal.

Because it wasn't. Because he did what he was ordered not to do. He disobeyed Master Shaw. The weight of the very sentence, _I disobeyed Master Shaw, _was so great that he could do nothing but close his eyes and freeze, holding still as it passed over him. He could feel Charles gently push him off and get up, and he heard that Charles and Master Shaw were talking, the former smug and the latter furious, but he couldn't catch the words, because all he could think of was what he had done. He didn't know what Master Shaw would do to him, and even after all these years of getting used to it, at the thought of punishment he still felt a lurch of fear in his stomach. But fear wasn't the worst of it, not by far. He knew he would deserve anything Master Shaw did to him. He would deserve even worse punishment from Master Charles, if Master Charles would even take him. After all, who would want to purchase a slave once they knew that it was bad? And Erik was bad. He was worthless. He didn't simply disobey an order – although that in itself was a horrifying failing, a forgiving master like Master Shaw would allow him to compensate for it. But he did far worse, he disobeyed an order and _enjoyed it_, he loved it like he has never loved anything before, he let Charles trick him into feeling strong and clever and whole and free. Erik gave a little whimper of disgust.

Charles's hand alighted on his shoulder.

'Get up, we're going.'

Erik dragged himself to his feet, and stood miserably in the circle of confused onlookers.

'May I ask for some of his clothes, for the road?' asked Charles, turning back towards Master Shaw.

'He has none.' He answered, with a wry smile. 'Maybe you are unfamiliar with our customs, but slaves don't _have _anything, and if they are allowed to wear clothes, those belong to the master. So either you take him as he is, or you leave him to me.'

'I'll take him.' Snapped Charles. He grabbed Erik's hand, and dragged him out of the room, out into the staircase, not stopping or slowing down. Despite everything, Erik was grateful for being led, because his vision swam, his feet were barely holding him up, and no matter how he tried, he could not make sense of the events of the last half hour.

When Erik followed Charles out of the building, the cold of the outside world hit him all at once, and he couldn't fight a shudder. Shaw rarely allowed him outside, not for years now, and he was suddenly barefoot in three inches of snow. Charles's car was quite close, a stylish silver machine, and as there was no driver, Charles apparently drove it himself. He further surprised Erik by opening the door on the passenger's side, and ushering him in. Inside the car, it was a little warmer, especially once Charles started the engine and left the driveway of Shaw manor.

They travelled in silence for a few long minutes, leaving behind snow-covered trees on both side of the empty little country lane. Charles had his eyes on the road, and Erik stared at his bare feet. He tried not to think. Everything that happened in the past decade was gone. He had lost everything. He was going to a new place, and he would have to learn to please a new master. He would do his best, but Charles, no, Master Charles, seemed so unpredictable and eccentric, he couldn't imagine it would be easy to satisfy his wishes. Erik's world has collapsed behind him, and he was leaving for a new one, one that was chaotic and incomprehensible, and even as he was almost paralysed with frustrated fear, he knew that letting it show would be even worse conduct, so he tried to stay still, breathe evenly, and force his heartbeat to calm down. Eventually Charles started talking.

'I meant it, you know. I meant it about the car and the money and the letter of freedom.'

Erik realised Charles expected him to talk, but he was unsure of the appropriate response, so he merely nodded.

'We'll go home to Westchester, and I'll get the paperwork done first thing tomorrow morning.' Continued Charles. 'From then on, you are free to do whatever you want. The outside world takes some getting used to, but you appear to be a quick learner and an adaptable person, so the transition period won't be as difficult for you as it has been for some others. Nevertheless, I wouldn't mind if you stayed with us for a while, we've got a lot to do, and I'm sure you could help. As I've said, your mutation is truly magnificent. If I could just figure out what exactly you are capable of…'

Charles trailed off, and looked at Erik, long and searching. Erik tried not to let his discomfort show, to keep his fists from clenching, his throat from going dry, tried to ignore the urge to cover himself, to curl up, or alternatively, to lash out and hurt Charles as bad as he could. He didn't know what Charles wanted, all he knew was that it didn't add up. The man risked his own liberty to buy him, yet he talked of letters of freedom, he told Erik he could go wherever he wished, but he talked about figuring what the mutation could do. Master Shaw had also been curious about Erik's mutation, but Erik didn't remember much of it, only orders and operating tables and restraints and light shining in his eyes and he was feeling sick, Charles was his new master now and he had to obey his master and he had to find joy in obeying his master, but he could not sit calmly in the car if it was driving towards another operating table.

Charles's eyes suddenly widened, he gave a decisive little nod, and drove off the road. The car skidded to a graceless halt in the middle of a snow-covered field, and Charles immediately sprang out of it. He wrenched open the door on Erik's side of the car, and gestured for him to get out. Erik clambered out, barefoot into the snow that was at least knee deep here.

'There are no people, or at least no sentient minds for at least one mile around.' declared Charles. 'I checked thoroughly.'

Erik idly wondered if this meant he was going to be executed. Master Charles reached into his pocket, but instead of a weapon, he pulled out a small key, the same matte grey as Erik's collar. The key Master Shaw always used before sending Erik on a mission.

'Hold still for a moment' asked Charles, and Erik felt a laugh start up and die away in his throat at the absurdity of the request: Master Shaw would have simply told him to drop on all fours to have better access to the keyhole at the back of his neck. He felt Charles' warm hand on his neck, he felt the click of the key turning, he felt the collar sliding off and falling to the ground and then – he felt everything.

He had almost forgotten the ecstasy of so much knowledge. He had gotten used to the vague hint of sensation in a ten-yard radius, but now the fog has lifted from his eyes and the shackles have fallen from his limbs, and he _stretched _his knowledge as far as it would go. He knew there were three points of metal on Charles, he knew the metallic structure of the car and the exact workings of its engine, he knew that Charles was right when he said the area was uninhabited, but that there was a shed just out of sight, with some rusting gardening tools in one corner, he knew there was an abandoned tractor and a huge pile of miscellaneous rubbish behind it, he knew the position of each traffic sign and milepost, he knew that there were more metal objects buried beneath the snow, and even older ones buried beneath the ground, bobby pins and frying pans and bullets and coins. When he concentrated even harder, he could feel the iron in his own blood, and in Charles's, and in the blood of nearby animals, foxes and rabbits and squirrels, and far above him, in the cover of the swirling clouds, a flock of birds were struggling against the eastern wind. He was aching to reach out and just touch one of the shining points of metal all around him.

'Well, go on then!' exclaimed Master Charles, and Erik finally let loose a decade of suppressed power. Lost keychains and buried treasure ripped through the ground, metal shook itself free from junkyard trash, the entire tractor rose up into the air, and still flying, it came over the ledge, towards the two of them. Erik could feel each individual object moving and hovering under his control, and he pulled them all to himself. He was surrounded by a murderously powerful whirlwind of metal, and he could feel his face contort into the too-wide grin Master Shaw used to punish, because he thought it was insubordinate. But right now, Erik couldn't stop laughing with sheer exhilaration even if he wanted to, his power pushing and pulling and lifting and dropping and whirling and melting and crushing and reforming all around him. In the end it wasn't his power that betrayed him, but his exhausted, overtaxed body, and when the first wave of dizzying weakness hit him, he almost fell to his knees. He got his bearings, but everything he held up fell with a dull thump, and he realised he was standing in a circle of amorphous, warped pieces of scrap metal, Master Charles standing by his side, completely unhurt.

'Groovy.' He murmured with an awestruck expression that soon changed into one of concern when he looked back on Erik, and noticed how hard he was shivering. 'I'm such an arse, you are going to catch your death of cold!'

Master Charles cast around the bits and pieces of junk at their feet, picked up a large sheet of magenta fabric that could have been a curtain sometime, or maybe a flag, and he draped it over Erik. The fabric wasn't very warm, but at least it was dry, and Erik huddled into it gratefully, especially now that his new master seemed utterly uninterested in controlling his mutation. It occurred to him that he could have killed the man, had he wanted to. That he still could. He didn't have the time to properly dwell on the thought, because Master Charles started talking again.

'Let's get back to the car.'

Only when they turned around, the car was gone, crushed into scrap metal like everything for almost a mile around. Erik braced himself for punishment, but Master Charles closed his eyes and lifted two fingers to his temple, his expression unreadable.

'Raven, could you hop in the car and get us please?' he said, in a strange, distant voice. 'We're about eight miles down the northwest-bound country road. … Yes, it's a we, we have a visitor. … No, I won't tell you any more about him, because then you'll have no incentive to hurry. … Thank you, dear.'

Master Charles made his way across to a tree that must have been uprooted by the low-flying tractor, and settled down on it. He patted the place beside his own.

'We're going to be here for twenty more minutes at least, so sit down. And for mercy's sake, stop worrying about the damn car. I liked it, but losing it was an absolutely fair price to pay for finally seeing you use your powers. It was probably the most wonderful thing I have ever seen.'

Erik sat down, pulling the magenta fabric around himself.

'I have a feeling you want to ask something.' Said Master Charles. 'So ask it.'

'Why did you do it?' blurted out Erik, before he could think better of it. 'Why did you take me?'

'I think- 'he started. 'I think no one should be a slave. You aren't the first time I did this.'

At Erik's baffled expression, Master Charles added 'Not exactly this, of course, this wager was strange even for me. When I was a child, I threw tantrums until my mother bought me this one slave, a little mutant girl who became my sister. I didn't want to own her, but she hated being a slave and she was thinking about ending her life before we took her in. Since I came back from Oxford, I bought another young mutant, because he is more help with my neurological research project than anyone else, and a human woman, a brilliant mind who was kept as a kitchen slave. A kitchen slave, can you imagine it? Anyway, all three of them live as freemen now, free to leave the mansion and come back at will. And I'm trying to find more people. We have been thinking that we could put together a team, a team that worked together, first only to show that former slaves could do just as much good as anyone else, but maybe we could start something greater.'

'But why me, sir?' asked Erik, emboldened by Master Charles' talkativeness.

'I read your mind, or at least what I could access superficially, and you seemed very unhappy.'

Erik didn't contest his master's answer, but he did consider the question for a few seconds. Was he unhappy with Master Shaw? He never thought so, but the relief he felt at being away from Shaw's presence, the relief that enveloped him despite the exhaustion, the confusion and the biting cold suggested that he may have been.

'But some of it was personal choice.' Admitted Master Charles. 'I was fascinated by your mutation, and I have to admit that I found you attractive.'

He sighed deeply, and scrubbed a hand across his face.

'I'm very sorry that I had to do what I did to get you away from Shaw.' He said, hurried and embarrassed. 'I never thought he would think of something so… so obscene, and I thought it was the only way to get you out of there, and to save my own skin too, so I decided to do it, even though it was hurting you.'

Erik tried to remember the things Master Charles did to him. As a master, he had every right to do anything he wished to Erik's body and mind, but even within that, he could think of nothing that would qualify as hurt. Unless it was the thoughts, the frightening, foreign thoughts he had when Master Charles put his hand on him.

'You had all the rights to plant images in my mind, sir.' Said Erik, trying to reassure his new Master.

'I did not touch your mind!' he protested. 'Since the wager started, I didn't even dare glance at your thoughts, for fear of Emma finding out. If she realised I tampered with anything, it would have been all over for both of us.'

'But then why did I think… that?' wondered Erik, now with a genuine hint of panic. 'I thought things no slave should think.'

'I'm afraid that was all you.' Answered Master Charles. 'I proposed the chess match because I hoped it would take you out of the slave mentality you have been taught, and back into the person you would be without your collar. Apparently it worked. But telepathy wasn't what I was apologising for. I'm apologising because I touched you, and maybe as a slave you don't know, or don't care, but touching people who can't say no is not a very moral thing to do.'

'That's all right, sir.' Murmured Erik in answer, feeling cold and sleepy and beyond every protocol he had ever been taught. 'I wanted to touch you too.'

'That's not the same.' Argued Master Charles. 'Slaves are always indoctrinated to accept masters, to want them and want to touch them.'

'No, that's not it.' Explained Erik, indignant that a telepath was intent on misunderstanding him. 'After I won the match, for that little while, I _really _wanted to touch you.'

He shuddered, recalling the thought of Charles spread vulnerable underneath him, and the real Charles looked away, a hint of blush appearing on his cheekbones.

'We'll have time to think about that in Westchester.' He said. 'When we are both freemen, we can have a rematch to that chess game, all right?' Erik nodded, because he felt genuinely pleased at the possibility of playing against this amazing opponent again, but that pleasure was tinged with a memory of Charles's lips wet and insistent against his. Without turning his head to look at him, Erik shifted until he was pressed up against Charles's side. He couldn't believe his own insolence, but he felt cold, and it seemed like the only thing that could make him feel better. Charles only smiled as he slid his arm around Erik's shoulders, a quiet, warm presence. Erik felt the last vestiges of tension, the last glimmers of fight-or-flight instinct leaving him as he relaxed into Charles, and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later Charles stood up, and he was forced to open his eyes. Charles was trying to scrub the dried come off his cardigan with a handful of snow, then after a few well-chosen swearwords he gave it up as a hopeless endeavour, took it off, and started walking back towards the road.

'Raven's coming, she's just round the bend.' Said Charles by way of explanation.

Erik stood up, and followed Charles towards the road, and towards something that looked like a mere cherry red speck on the horizon, but clearly felt like a car. The car that would take Erik to his new home, his new life, a free life. He didn't exactly know what that life would be like, but he knew he would be allowed to use his powers, he would work to set other slaves free, and that Charles would be there, and they would play chess again. It sounded like a good start.

Charles self-consciously tugged at his shirtsleeves, and Erik copied him by trying to rearrange the colourful fabric he was wrapped in to cover himself better. He managed to pull it together in the front, but just then a gust of snowy wind caught it, and it billowed out behind him. Like a cape.

THE END


End file.
